


Sherlock Holmes' Glass of Tea

by mostlikelydefinentlymad



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 1800s, Billy Wilder film, First Kiss, John Watson POV, Love Confessions, M/M, sherlock POV, the private life of sherlock holmes - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2015-07-13
Packaged: 2018-04-09 02:43:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4330779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mostlikelydefinentlymad/pseuds/mostlikelydefinentlymad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Do you mean to say that your doctor, John Watson...he is, your glass of tea?" the other man asked, tilting his head to the side, wondering if he'd heard right. </p><p>"If you wish to be picturesque about it, yes," Holmes' confirmed and smiled. "We have lived together for five happy years," he continued. It felt good to say it out loud, to share with another person what he'd felt since he'd first laid eyes on John Watson. It felt like coming up for air after hours spent underwater.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Russian Midgets

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own anything. All rights belong to Billy Wilder and Arthur Conan Doyle. I have slightly altered the story. Based on The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes, 1970. John Watson POV with some Sherlock POV. 
> 
> I didn't care for John Watson's character and assumed, it being the 1800s, that he was simply terrified to share his feelings and to have them out in the open.
> 
> I used the script to assist me http://www.dailyscript.com/scripts/holmes.pdf

**August 1887**

They'd just returned from solving the murder of one Colonel Abernetty and the air was stale with the smell of dirt trodden streets and horse droppings but Watson's companion slept peacefully beside of him in the hansom cab. Holmes' head was resting on the side wall, eyes pressed tightly closed, hands resting on his lap. Watson had to admit that he looked rather dashing in his deer stalker hat (dedicated readers of _The Strand_ practically demanded it), inverness cape and recently shined black shoes that pointed near the end.

He hardly slept much these days and as much as Watson hated to wake him, they'd at last arrived home to 221B Baker Street.

 _"Holmes, we're here. Wake up,"_ he said as he gently nudged Holmes' elbow and gathered his cane with the other hand.

 _" 'Mmm up,"_ came the reply as Holmes sat up ramrod straight and yawned. At times he reminded Watson of a lazy house cat just waking from its mid morning nap. He chuckled to himself under his breath at the visual that followed.

Opening the door he was promptly greeted by Mrs. Hudson, their landlady who blessidely put up with Holmes' experiments late into the night and dark moods without tossing them both out. She smiled at them as the cabbie began to unload their luggage and walked up to greet them. She wore a tattered apron over a well worn blue dress and a few pieces of hair had escaped the bonnet atop her head. She was quite the motherly figure in both their lives and for that, Watson was grateful. He had no family in London, having moved there after being discharged from the military following a leg wound that he'd struggled to recover from. To this day it ached when the weather graced them with rain storms.

 _"Mr. Holmes I wish you'd told me you were coming home. I would've had a goose prepared,"_ she tutted as she stared past Watson.

 _"My dear Mrs. Hudson, criminals are notoriously unpredictable. I had no time frame of when we'd return",_ he said as they made their way into the flat.

It smelled of stale cigarette smoke and the lingering stench of various burnt chemicals. It smelled like _home._

Mrs. Hudson left to unpack their bags and gather dirty laundry.

Holmes proceeded to pull the shades to allow sunlight to filter in. It fell atop dust covered bookshelves, empty beakers and tubes and two chairs that sat near the fireplace. Buttery soft charcoal for Holmes and a short overstuffed but well worn chair with rich reds and golds for Watson. 

The cabbie made his way inside with the luggage and deposited them by the door as Holmes paid him.

Holmes picked up his dagger and began to open mail that had been awaiting their arrival as Watson grabbed the latest copy of _The Strand_ magazine. Publishing their adventures in the magazine was his pride and joy. He wanted all of London to see exactly what Sherlock Holmes was capable of. The man was an outright genius even if he'd never admit to it. He could solve a crime by picking up the smallest details that Scotland Yard missed, a lock of hair swept roughly under the doorstop, a single drop of blood near a fireplace poker.

 _"Here's an advanced copy of Strand magazine,"_ he said excitedly as he made his way over to Holmes. _"They've printed The Red Headed League!",_ he exclaimed.

The two of them graced the cover, side by side. Holmes in his deer stalker, Watson in a black bowler hat. They looked quite the pair, striking even as they stared back from the cover.

 _"Very impressive,"_ Sherlock replied blandly.

 _"Would you like to know how I treated it?,"_ John questioned.

 _"I can hardly wait. I'm sure I'll find all kinds of details about the case that I didn't know before. You tend to romanticize in your writings, Watson,"_ he sniffed.

 _"I do no such thing,"_ John replied, offended. He had expected no less than this but it stung none the less.

 _"You described me as 6'9, I am hardly 6'1,"_ Sherlock said dryly as he continued to open more envelopes.

John could admit to himself that he'd taken liberty with the appearance of one Sherlock Holmes but merely because he wanted readers to see him as he did. To John he was a much taller man who enjoyed running down the cobbled streets of London with his cape billowing behind him and his deer stalker hat firmly on his head. He was, John thought to himself, rather charming when he wanted to be.

 _"Blame it on the illustrator. He's out of control,"_ he swapped the blame onto someone else. Holmes was getting entirely too close to the truth, for comfort.

 _"You have saddled me with this improbable costume, which the public now expects me to wear,"_ he said as he removed his hat and cape and hung them on two gold hooks, behind the door.

John found the cape and hat quite fetching which is why he'd continued to include it but he'd never say it out loud.

 _"That's not my doing,"_ he replied, tensely as he sat the magazine down on the kitchen table, nearly knocking over a vial of blue liquid. He didn't want to know what it was.

 _"You made me out to be a violin virtuso. Here, a request from the Liverpool symphony,"_ he handed the folded paper to Watson and huffed.

 _"I'm hardly that good. I could barely hold my own,"_ he mumbled aloud.

 _"You're too modest,"_ Watson replied and smiled. He'd always loved Holmes' playing and on cold nights when the night stretched on, Holmes would play for him until he slept. It was something Watson took for granted but greatly treasured.

 _"You have painted me as a drug addict",_ he scoffed, turning on his heel to face Watson. _"I haven't partaken in the 7% solution in many months."_ He was clearly offended at the notion of being labeled an addict. True he had tendencies to wrap himself around experiments for weeks on end, hardly eating or drinking and sustaining on luke warm tea and a 7% (5%, he corrected in his mind. Watson had been watering it down) solution. If he were honest he'd admit that something within him had shifted and with the constant presence of Watson again (he'd temporarily moved out for one year and had tragically lost his new bride to illness) filled the hole in his life.

 _"My apologies,"_ John said with a small smile. He'd gotten carried away when writing and it was such a habit to include Holmes' drug use, that he hadn't noticed the lack of it. The thought settled in his stomach and warmed his skin. Perhaps Holmes would be okay after all. He'd live a long and happy life and wouldn't die an early death due to succumbing to addiction.

 _"No matter. You can correct it in the following issue,"_ Sherlock said and returned to the stack of mail in his hand. On top of the heap was a letter asking for his assistance. It was an urgent appeal to find six missing midgets.

 _"Midgets?,"_ Watson said, intrigued, as he read over Holmes' shoulder and leaned slightly against rounded shoulders. In this proximity it was sometimes hard to focus but the small gestures were all he could procure. Anything else would be unspeakable. After all, Holmes' work was top priority and he'd once said as much.

John allowed his mind to wander back to that first day.

 _"Y_ ou _might consider me married to my work,"_ Sherlock had stated, flatly, upon meeting for the first time. Watson found no issue with this, they'd simply be flatmates and nothing more. He'd carry on with his work and occasionally he might read the morning papers headlines aloud as they balked at robberies and arson.

 _"Watson, are you paying attention? I said that the midgets had likely been smuggled to Vienna by now, likely disguised as little girls in pinafores. I suspect they might be jewel thieves,"_ he stared unexpectedly at Watson, letter still in hand.

Watson cleared his throat. _"Sounds like we have a case. Shall we travel there and locate them?",_ he questioned and stared back at Holmes. He was lucky in that Holmes had caught him up on recent discussion. He found his mind drifting more and more lately, back to intimate cases they'd taken such as the unhappy wife who had faked her own death, to allow her to be with her lover. They'd solved the case and though it was unlike him, Holmes had covered her tracks and informed the husband that his wife was, indeed, dead. He'd never taken Holmes to be a man who would even think twice about love. He ruled with cold hard logic but there were the times in between that confused Watson. Times when his gaze would soften as it met Watsons over brandy and a warm fire but before he could figure it out, the curtain was pulled closed and solemn eyes regarded him.

Holmes had simply furrowed his brow before continuing to rattle off details about when they'd leave, the approach they'd take and how long they might be gone.

 


	2. An Odd Request

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What is spoken cannot be undone.

After a small argument the night after, regarding Holmes shooting Mrs. Hudson's walls and silent treatment from Watson, they'd arrived in Liverpool.

It would take more than one day to solve so they'd chosen to stay at the local inn. The cab slowed and the cabbie began to unpack their belongings as they made their way to the front desk. 

_"What can I do for you, gentlemen?",_ an older gentleman with a graying mustache that curled out on both sides asked. He wore an off white shirt and gray wool pants. Within a minute Holmes took in every detail and made mental notes. Divorced, three grandchildren, had a tendency toward the masculine side of romantic interests rather than the feminine. He wasn't the first Holmes had came across and likely he wouldn't be the last. It was a detail that most chose to keep to themselves lest they be imprisoned for the rest of their lives or dragged through a lengthy court trial. It was illegal for one man to love another. Holmes himself had never married and was content to live the rest of his life with the good doctor, at 221B.

 _"One room please, two beds. We'll need it for multiple nights,"_ he stated and paid the man.

 _"We can get you all set up now, just follow the busboy there. Here's your key,"_ he smiled at them warmly as he handed Watson the key and went back to his register.

The room was small and drab with one bed pressed against the wall and the other near the window. Both were neatly covered with a bedspread of faded carnations in various shades of green. Watson found the pattern quite peculiar yet familiar but didn't say anything as they put away their belongings. On the far right wall stood a stained oak armoire that had seen better days, and wire hangers for clothing. Silently they put their things away, Holmes' clothing blending in with Watsons more modest clothing in the armoire.

 _"Dinner?"_ Sherlock inquired, breaking the silence and turning to face Watson.

 _"Hmm? Oh, yes. Dinner would be wonderful,"_ John said and forced a smile that he did not feel. His stomach rumbled and he realized they hadn't eaten since earlier that morning and it was nearly nine o'clock.

They made their way down creaking stairs to find a small area tucked away for dining guests. The air smelled of savory goose with carrots and potatoes, freshly baked yeast rolls and mince pie.

Watson took the seat across from Holmes as Holmes stretched his long legs beneath the table. His leg bumped slightly into Watsons and came to rest against his knee. Neither spoke of it, rather choosing to discuss their strategy instead.

When they'd eaten their fill, Holmes scooted his knee back to his own side and Watson found that his missed the warmth.

 _"There is a Russian ballet tonight, Swan Lake and I suspect Madame Petrova might be connected to our culprits. I have bought us tickets so we can get a closer look,"_ Holmes stated matter of factly.

 _"That's wonderful, Holmes! I have always loved the ballet,"_ Watson smiled broadly back at him and for the first time in weeks he felt excited about something.

 _"It's tomorrow night at 7pm, I've reserved a private booth for optimal viewing,"_ Holmes said and Watson felt his heart kick harder in his chest. The entire thing felt quite intimate but he willed himself to not get too excited. This was Sherlock Holmes, after all. His work came first and that's all this was, work, he reminded himself.

 _"Good, that's good,"_ Watson replied, finding himself at a loss for words.

 _"It's about time we start getting to bed,"_ Holmes stood and stretched lazily. Watson's gaze drifted over Holmes broad shoulders and chest before resting on those long seemingly delicate fingers.

 _"Watson? Shall we?,"_ Holmes startled him out of his blatant gazing. He promptly looked away and hoped his expression hadn't been readable. Sometimes living with Sherlock Holmes was like having ones entire brain and body dissected and picked apart. At times it was unnerving.

 _"Yes, we'll retire to the bedroom. I'm quite exhausted after the long drive here,"_ Watson feigned a yawn and followed Holmes to their room.

Taking turns in the shared bathroom, they dressed for bed. Holmes in cornflower blue long sleeved pajamas that cut a striking contrast to his dark hair. Watson in flannel pajamas in shades of red and brown.

Watson wasn't sure how long he laid there in silence, listening to Holmes' quiet even breathing in the darkness before he found himself drifting off and, per usual, dreaming about the man next to him. Dreams that would surely land him in prison should anyone know.

The next morning, over scrambled eggs and buttered toast they'd decided on the days events. They would drop by an old cemetery near an abandoned church as Holmes believed they'd catch their culprits there.

Around two o'clock they were hiding in tall bushes as they watched no less than five short little girls in petticoats and pinafores dig up a body. It was quite a sight to behold and although they couldn't see their faces, Holmes was sure it must be the suspects. 

Watson's leg was aching so he'd shifted to get to a more comfortable position, as comfortable as one could be when one is crouching on the ground. It was enough to tip off the little girls. They'd turned then, staring right at them, with older faces and some sporting five o' clock shadow. So Holmes had been right then.

The men made a mad dash for it as Holmes and Watson came out of hiding. They made their way over to the newly dug up coffin and eased it open. Inside were a handful of rubies and sapphires lying on the chest of a smaller man who had been dead for quite some time.

 _"It appears that they made their way to this cemetery and dug up the body in order to extract these jewels, just as I'd suspected. Now they'll make their way back to Madame Petrova. It's possible that she isn't involved, as a matter of fact, I doubt it entirely but they're hiding their stash in the building where she'll be performing, likely the dressing room,"_ Holmes stood and dusted off his trousers as Watson did the same.

 _"The ballet then."_ Watson nodded his head as they left the site.

Five hours later, they were dressed in matching tuxedos with white bows at the collar. Holmes had procured a private balcony off to the right of the stage but far enough away that anyone watching wouldn't be suspicious.

 _"There is Madame Petrova! She dances marvelously, don't you think, Holmes? They say twelve men  have died for her, six committed suicide, four were killed in duels and one fell out of the gallery in the Vienna opera house,"_ he turned to the man beside of him.

" _Really?"_ drawled Holmes as he took the small binoculars that Watson was offering and watched as the woman gracefully turned in time with the music and those around her.

 _"Very strong arches, I must admit,"_ he observed and passed the binoculars back. He wasn't interested in ballet, as least not tonight though he'd practiced it as a child, under the tutelage of Madame Wilkock. He'd surpassed the other students and continued the art of ballet until his mother deemed him too old to participate, at the age of twelve. She'd said that people might get the wrong idea and had pulled him promptly. He hadn't danced since.

Watson chuckled to himself as he continued to take in the twirling and pirouettes. Taking a risk, he stretched his legs out just as Holmes had done at dinner the previous day and allowed one leg to prop up next to Holmes. They were sitting just close enough, in the small booth, that his thigh brushed Holmes' and neither pulled away. Watson's skin tingled where it touched Holmes' and he found he was no longer paying attention to the main attraction. He couldn't focus and found that his heart was beating wildly. He felt like an absolute rebel as they sat there side by side, where other patrons couldn't see them. 

Holmes had felt the slight shift as Watsons leg pressed against his own. He knew he should stop this, should pull back but he couldn't bring himself to. He was sure it wasn't intentional, that Watson would never, in a million years, feel that way about him. He would've liked that though it was illegal and certainly risky but he'd been witness to the many comings and goings and dates in the years they'd lived together. He'd earned the nickname _3 continents Watson_ and that was all Holmes had needed to know. He hadn't pursued the matter.

The intimate moment was abruptly disturbed as a man opened their curtain and Watson quickly moved his leg back to its original resting place.

A man in evening clothes and a top hat stared back at them. He was in his mid fifties and appeared to be quite sinister. Holmes was apprehensive. The man went by the name of Rogozhin. 

_"Mr. Holmes? ",_ he inquired, stepping forward into the booth.

 _"Yes,"_ replied Holmes.

 _"I am Nicolai Rogozhin, director general of the Imperial Russian Ballet. So glad you accept invitation,"_ he said with a heavy Russian accent. Suspiciously enough, he'd sent the invitation to 221B around the time that the letter regarding the small criminals had arrived.

Holmes and Watson stood to vacate their chairs, assuming he'd intended on furthering the conversation in private. The man motioned for them to sit and took his own seat behind them.

 _"This is Doctor Watson,"_ Holmes introduced his companion as Watson nodded.

 _"Pleased to meet you. You are enjoying?"_ came the reply.

 _"Immensely,"_ Watson answered, enthusiastically.

 _"Tell me, Mr. Holmes. How is your health?"_ the man asked, abruptly.

 _"My health? Better consult my doctor,"_ Holmes retorted and turned to Watson.

 _"Oh hes in excellent shape,"_ Watson answered and tried not to over think the possessive term. _My doctor_.

 _"Any insanity in your family? Diabetes? Asthma?"_ Nicolai shot back.

 _"Would you mind telling me what this is all about?,"_   Holmes was not a patient man and though he hadn't exactly been watching the ballet, he was eager to enjoy the blessed quiet with Watson.

 _"Madame Petrova, she has problem,"_ Nicolai responded and waited.

 _"Could you be more specific?,"_ Holmes questioned, growing more suspicious by the minute.

" _Absolutely not,"_ came the frank reply.

On the stage, the pas-de-deux finished with a standing ovation.

Nicolai stood and turned to address Holmes.

 _"After performance, there will be little celebration backstage and Madame requests your presence",_ he stated.

 _"We'd be delighted,"_ Watson responded, knowing he wasn't exactly invited but he had a niggling sensation about the entire ordeal.

Turning to Watson, the man dryly said " _You're invited also"_ and walked away.

They watched the rest of the acts in heavy silence, both keeping to their side of the booth.

After the show they were ushered backstage where the dancers gathered. On a table were champagne glasses, fruits and cheeses and no less than six bottles of expensive champagne.

 _"Help yourself, Doctor,"_ Nicolai smiled and gestured for a group of women in frilly white leotards and tutu's to come over. They giggled as they circled around them.

Nicolai led Holmes away as Watson grinned at the gathering and wrapped his arm around two waists. He drank an entire bottle of champagne by himself and was feeling more than a little light headed as he danced and basked in the womens attention.

Holmes was led into a spacious room with a plush red couches and chairs to match. Madame Petrova was in a ruby dressing gown and lounged on a couch on the opposite side of the room.

 _"Mr. Holmes, I must prepare you for most extrodinary case,"_ Nicolai grinned at him as he brought out a bottle of spiced rum and introduced Holmes to the seated woman. She spoke no english so he served as translator. Holmes accepted the glass tumblr of alcohol and downed it quickly. He wasn't exactly good with people and he was feeling off kilter at the moment. He sputtered for a moment after drinking and was told that it was imported Russian rum, quite stronger than he was used to and had a touch of red pepper. 

Nicolai conversed with Madame Pertrova for a moment and turned to Holmes.

 _"You are shorter than pictured,"_ he stated.

" _I didn't mean to be,"_ Holmes replied, casually. He could hardly help it if Watson took it upon himself to allow the illustrator to make him appear taller.

There was another exchange and Nicolai said to him, " _Short, tall, it does not matter."_

" _Madame is a great admirer of yours. She has read every story, her favorite is big dog from Baskerville,"_ he continued. 

_"I'm afraid it loses something in translation."_

After a moment, Nicolai presented him with an exquisite violin. Holmes looked over it and noted that it was made in 1709 and the label was authentic. It really was a beauty to behold. Surprisingly Madame Petrova had told Nicolai to gift it to him. He didn't understand. He assured Nicolai that his fees as a detective weren't _that_ steep. 

Nicolai explained that tonight was Madame Petrova's final performance and expressed her longing for a child as she was getting older and felt her chances were significantly falling. Suddenly the pieces slid into place. He was to father her child and walk away, no strings attached.

His breathing hitched and inwardly he began to panic. He had never favored the opposite sex but he'd never voiced it aloud.

" _Madame wants to know when you'll be ready,"_ said Nicolai, sipping his rum.

 _"Ready?",_ Holmes inquired and raised his eyebrows, stepping back slightly. He could feel the buzz of the alcohol in his veins and it helped sooth his nerves somewhat.

" _To leave for Venice. All arrangements have been made. You will spend one week there with Madame..."_ Nicolai broke off as Holmes interrupted.

 _"This is all really flattering but surely there are other men,"_ he stammered.

" _To tell you truth, you were not the first. We considered Russian writer Tolstoi- "_ admitted Nicolai as Holmes spoke.

 _"That's more like it,"_ he said as he felt tension leave his shoulders.

Nicolai went on to name off Nietzsche and Tschaikowski.

 _"You can't go wrong with Tschaikowski,"_ Holmes countered.

 _"We could and we did. It was disaster,"_ he retorted.

 _"Why?",_ Holmes questioned.

 _"You don't know? Women are...how shall I put it? Women not his glass of tea,"_ Nicolai smiled slightly.

" _Pity that,"_ Holmes replied, awkwardly. He could see where this was going and he didn't like it.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Confessions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He'd hoped he could keep this buried, never to breech the surface but with Madame Petrovas sharp eyes watching him and the alcohol buzzing in his veins, he confessed.

Out of his element, Holmes found himself floundering for the first time in his life. He felt utterly exposed.

_"Madame mustn't be too hasty. She must remember that I'm an Englishman. You know what they say about us. If there's one thing more deplorable than our cooking, it's our love-making. We're not exactly the most romantic of people."_

_"Perfect. We don't want sentimental idiots, falling in love and committing suicide. One week in Venice and she goes back to St. Petersburg with baby. You go back to London with violin,"_ Nicolai stated. 

Simple, it all sounded incredibly simple and for a moment he'd allowed himself to wonder what it might be like to have a mini version of himself growing up in the world and possibly inheriting his knack for deductions. Quickly he dashed the thought, knowing full and well that the only future he held was with John Watson and Baker Street.

Nicolai conversed with Madame Petrova and translated, speaking about how she'd be gentle and whether he found her attractive or not.

At that precise moment, Watson poked his head inside of the door to check on Holmes. He'd been drinking and had a bright red flower behind one ear. He appeared positively giddy.

 _"Excuse me, what does prokanzik mean?,"_ he asked, turning to Nicolai who'd informed him that it meant "little devil". He left promptly, closing the door behind him and Holmes longed to follow. How ironic the timing. Madame was a beautiful woman but she didn't make his skin tingle or his blood rush, he couldn't imagine stripping off her clothes and having his way with her. He found the very thought dizzying. Watson though, he'd looked quite attractive with his face flushed from the alcohol and the flower behind his ear, clothes disheveled from dancing. He looked younger somehow. Shaking himself from his thoughts he turned his attention back to the proposition at hand. 

He assured Madame that he found her attractive, adding no details, mind you and kept his eyes on the door that Watson had left from. 

_"Then no problem,"_ Nicolai added with a smirk.

 _"Maybe a slight one. See, I am not a free man,"_ he willed his voice to sound calmer than he felt.

 _"Not free? You are a bachelor,"_ this confused Nicolai.

 _"A bachelor living with another bachelor for five years, five happy years,"_ he replied wistfully. Sure they'd had their moments and more than once Watson had stormed out of the house to stay overnight at a hotel but there had been many happy moments as well. He couldn't imagine life being any different.

 _"What is it you're trying to tell me?"_ Nicolai moved closer, a look of confusion on his face. 

 _"The point is that Tschaikowski wasn't an isolated case,"_ he stated.

 _"You mean...you and Doctor Watson?"_ Nicolai stumbled over his words and gestured with his hand. " _He is your glass of tea?"_ he continued.

 _"_ _If you wish to be picturesque about it, yes."_ Holmes could hardly believe he'd admitted to such feelings. He told himself he could always write it off as needing an excuse to escape the clingy Madame Petrova and her plan.

There were excited words exchanged between Madame Petrova and Nicolai before she turned her back to the two of them in anger. Holmes knew he couldn't leave quite yet, not without checking the room for the missing jewels. He wandered around, touching chairs and picture frames absent mindedly as he quietly explained the situation (possible criminals using Madame's room as a place to stash stolen jewels) and Madame dashed from the room. Nicolai left him to his work and made his way over to Watson.

The man was dancing merrily, surrounded with excited women and music. He doubted the man could understand a word of what the women were saying but he went along with it none the less. Stepping next to a female dancer, he whispered in her ear and before long the entire group knew about Watson's happy bachelorhood with Holmes.

Giggling, the women stepped back as they were replaced by male ballet dancers in bright leotards. If Watson noticed, he didn't seem to mind as he danced in rhythm, kicking up his heels and grinning, with the other men. After he grew tired he made his way over to Nicolai who explained his conversation with Holmes.

Meanwhile Holmes had managed to catch the thieves in the act and acquire the jewels, stashed under Madame Petrova's vanity table. He'd cuffed them and alerted the authorities before making his way upstairs and bracing himself for Watsons reaction. He hadn't meant to include him in his rous but the words rolled off of his tongue before he could call them back.

It was well past midnight when Watson made his way to the room, hesitating in front of the door. He didn't know what to feel. His initial reaction was anger. How could Holmes use him like this, toy with his feelings? Another part of him entertained the idea of Holmes actually meaning what he'd said but he quickly brushed it away. He was too old to be mooning over his flatmate.

Throwing the door aside, he barreled thru.

 _"HOLMES? Holmes! Answer me, I know you're in here!",_ he shouted.

There was only silence as smoke drifted from the back of a chair. He angerly tossed the first thing he could find, knocking the pipe to the floor. Holmes did not get up. He dashed over to the chair only to find that it was only the concoction Holmes' had built to assist him in testing different types of ash.

In the darkness, Holmes stepped forward. From all outward appearances, he looked calm. He'd taken off his bow tie and his hair looked as if he'd been running his fingers through it. His shoes were pulled off to the side so that he stood there barefoot.

Watson stormed toward him.

 _"How could you do a dastardly thing like this to me? What about my feelings?  Do you realize the gravity of what you have done?"_ he raged.

 _"_ _Watson, you have my sincerest apologies but have you ever been cornered by a mad woman? It seemed the only way to get away without hurting her feelings,"_ he tasted the bitter lie on his tongue. It wasn't supposed to happen like this, never like this. Watson was livid. As he'd suspected it was one sided. He was absolutely mad over John Watson, always had been if he were honest.

Watson paced back and forth in front of the fire, taking it all in.

 _"I know! We'll get married!",_ he exclaimed with a smile.

" _Then they will talk,"_ Holmes said dryly as he lit his pipe.

 _"We've nothing to hide! I've my reputation to back me. I'm 3 continents Watson! You've got a reputation with women, to back you too? I hope I'm not being presumptuous,"_ Watson smiled at his own brilliance and stepped closer to Holmes until he was nearly right up in his face.

Perhaps it wouldn't be awkward after all. They'd continue to live and work together and put all of this behind them. He'd work harder at burying his feelings and longings, would keep his distance if need be. No more interlocking his arm with Holmes' when they walked, no more touching his shoulder gently when he was in another dark mood, no more pressing his leg intimately against Holmes. It wouldn't make him happy but it had to be that way.

Holmes face darkened and he frowned as he moved to walk away.

 _"The answer is yes,"_ he uttered, stepping into the narrow hall that led to their room.

Despite himself, Watson beamed at him. He knew it. He'd been imagining any feelings between the two of them. Life could be more simple, he could breathe easier and with time and a wife he'd be able to move on. They could see one another in passing.

 _"You are being presumptuous,"_ Holmes muttered as he walked away, leaving Watson speechless.

 

_"_


	4. Fallout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson isn't sure where to go from here. He's left wondering if Holmes meant it when he'd told Nicolai that Watson was his glass of tea.

Watson wasn't sure exactly how long he'd sat there, turning the words over and over in his head and, though he knew he'd had enough, drinking. It was a fact now, that Holmes did in fact prefer men and Watson found that it didn't unnerve him. Instead he felt a pang of disappointment. What if Holmes really had been using him as an excuse to escape Madame Petrova? Didn't his feelings matter at all?

He'd eventually stumbled to their room and fell onto his bed without changing his clothes, merely kicking his shoes off. As with the night before, he lay there listening to Holmes' breathing and wondered if he was actually sleeping. More than once he'd wanted to walk over there and demand answers but in the end, his eyes were too heavy to keep open.

 

**The next morning**

Over breakfast, as if nothing had happened, Holmes filled him in on case details. They'd be returning to Baker Street the following morning. Watson had absent mindedly nodded along, hardly listening or responding. His head was still throbbing from last night and spinning. He decided he'd bring it up once more when they were in their room. 

Two cups of tea and Holmes smoking his pipe a good four times later, they made their way to their room. The air between them felt awkward and tense but Holmes pretended to not be affected.

Watson sat down on the side of his bed, unmade as it was, and removed his shoes. He allowed himself to look over Holmes from his polished shoes to the rolled up sleeves on his burgundy button up shirt. He took in the way his wavy brown hair fell slightly at the side of his temple, admired his long manicured fingers, the pale skin at his neck where the top button of his shirt was undone. He felt his skin tingle and quickly looked away.

 _"Holmes, I feel we should talk,"_ he said, nearly to himself. Holmes turned and sat on the edge of his own bed, a safe distance from Watson, and removed his shoes.

 _"I'm listening,"_ he picked up his beloved violin and began to pluck at the strings, moved to the chair near the window.

 _"About what you said, what you told Madame Petrova,"_ he began, nervously. How peculiar that he, three continents Watson, should feel so unnerved.

Holmes said nothing, glancing quickly at Watson before plucking once more at his violin.

 _"I feel utterly ridiculous, honestly, but the glass of tea comment?"_ It was out there. He took a deep breath and continued. Holmes moved to say something but he held a finger up.

 _"I'm not...I'm not finished. I need to know, okay. I need you to be honest. Don't lie to me. Did you...mean it?",_ he spat out nervously.

Holmes put down his violin and moved to sit on the bed across from Watson. His heart was racing.

 _"I did,"_ he looked Watson in the eye, no backing down now.

Watson sat there, blinking and not moving, eyes darting from the floor to Holmes.

 _"I don't understand, why didn't you tell me?"_ he asked, finally gathering his wits about him.

 _"I assumed you had other obligations of the female persuasion,"_ for all the world, Watson had to give him credit, he didn't appear shaken in the least. Meanwhile Watson felt like someone had torn his chest wide open and put it on display _._ He laughed at the ridiculousness of the statement. Sure, he found that he did prefer women but he found men attractive as well. It was quite a startling realization that he'd made late in life. Holmes though, Holmes was  _everything._

 _"I don't understand,"_ Holmes said, offended. He didn't take too well to being laughed at especially when he spoke of love, of emotions. Things he was far from an expert on but he felt them. 

_"All along then..."_ Watson trailed off, shaking his head.

He couldn't quite find the words to express how he was feeling so he moved to Holmes bed to sit beside of him. Legs brushing against one another, the air crackling between them. It was all surreal.

He took Holmes hand in his own and brought it to his lips, kissing it gently. Holmes eyelids fluttered and his mouth parted slightly. He couldn't speak.

Feeling braver and not even caring that they hadn't bothered to lock the door, he put both hands on Holmes' face and pulled him in. Warm lips pressed against one another as Holmes wrapped his arms around Watson and tugged him as close as they could get. He parted his lips to allow Watson to deepen the kiss, to slip his tongue inside and moaned as he curled his hands into Holmes' hair. It was a passionate heated kiss, five years in the making, intense. Watson gave what he got and, breaking the kiss he moved to kiss Holmes' pale neck, something he'd been longing to do for years. He trailed small kisses on each side and gently bit, causing Holmes to make a sound Watson had no idea he could even make.

He took pleasure in knowing _he_ had made him sound like that.

There was a flurry of unbuttoning shirts and trailing heated hands over muscle, allowing themselves to touch one another for the first time. Nothing was sacred, nothing was forbidden.

Watson pulled back from a particularly hungry possessive kiss to see Holmes and he was breathtaking. His cheeks were slightly pink, a stark contrast to his pale skin, his lips red and hair disheveled. There was something primal in his gaze.

 _"I never dreamed...I never knew, my dear Watson,"_ he nearly whispered and his eyes softened. This time he didn't try to hide it. Watson caressed his cheek, because he could do that now, and his bottom lip before leaning forward and taking it in his mouth, sucking gently.

This man, this madman...

 _"Always,"_ Watson replied, pulling back to look him in the eye. Holmes smiled brightly and intertwined his fingers with Watsons.

There would be time for more passionate endeavors, more stolen kisses, heated glances, falling into one anothers bed, more _love._

It felt like they'd waited ages to finally reach this point but now that they were here, they had all the time in the world.


End file.
